Paul Johnson - The Death List

I rang Dave again. “Where are you?”

“Denmark Hill. Should be there in under ten minutes.”

“Okay. Same here.” I rang off and had a thought. If the Devil had a legion of helpers, maybe Dave’s cottage wasn’t safe.

As I paid off the cabbie, I saw Dave’s large four-by-four pull up outside the school.

Looking around and seeing no sign of anyone suspicious, I went over to him. “Thanks for dropping everything.”

“No worries. It’s only a two-hundred-grand contract.” He grinned. “I can always use that ten grand you gave me as partial restitution.”

I glared at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

He slapped me on the back. “Joke, you pillock. Right, what are we doing?”

“Pulling Lucy and your pair out of their classes. We’ll tell the teachers that there’s been a family emergency.”

“What, in both our families?”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Get home and pick up Ginny.” I grabbed his arm. “Listen, Dave, it’s not safe for you to go to your cottage. The bastard may have been watching you.”

There was a flash of anger in his eyes. “Is that right? Fucker.”

A cleaner who was passing us in the playground tutted her disapproval.

“Don’t worry,” he said, with a grin. “I’ll think of something. Better if you don’t know, eh?”

I nodded. He was way ahead of me. In the same spirit, I decided it was better if he didn’t know what had happened to Andy. I gave him my new mobile number.

“Just one thing, Matt,” he said, his tone more serious. “Does Caroline know about this?”

“Not yet,” I replied, avoiding his eyes. He was aiding and abetting the abduction of a child without her mother’s permission. I couldn’t tell my ex-wife till Dave was well clear of his home.

“It’s okay,” he said, giving me a thump on the shoulder. “I trust you.”

As we headed into the school to interrupt classes, I heard him mutter, “Christ knows why.”

Karen Oaten watched as the mortuary attendants removed the body of the gardener. Christian Fels had identified him as Vlado Petrovic, a Bosnian national whose papers were in order. Judging by the way Fels’s eyes had dampened when he saw the body, he’d had more than employer-employee relations with the unfortunate immigrant.

Fels had been treated by a paramedic, having refused to go to hospital. There was a bandage round his head, thin strands of hair hanging over it like those on a cheap Halloween mask.

“Have you arrested that lunatic Wells yet, Inspector?” he said, glaring at her.

“Chief Inspector,” Oaten corrected. She’d always had a problem with bullies like Fels. “We’re working on it. Although, by your own admission, Mr. Wells is taller than either of your attackers.” She gave him a tight smile. “And he provided a bodyguard for you.”

“Is that what he’s saying?” Fels scoffed. “I always knew that man was a waste of my time. If he wasn’t behind the attack, why did those masked maniacs try to make me eat his books?”

“Good question.”

The literary agent stared at her. “Well?” he demanded.

“I ask the questions,” she said. “You answer them.”

Fels took a step back, and then retreated farther into his sumptuously furnished drawing room. “Have a seat, Chief Inspector,” he said, flapping his hand at the leather armchairs.

“No, thanks,” Oaten said. “Taff!” she called through the open door.

The inspector appeared. “Yes, guv?”

“Have you got any more questions for Mr. Fels?”

“No, he’s given us a provisional statement.”

“All right.” Karen Oaten turned from examining a row of plastic-covered first editions. “Tell me, Mr. Fels, why did you part company with Matt Wells?”

The agent gave her an exasperated glare. “What has that to do with what happened here today?”

“Allow me to be the judge of that, please.”

Fels found her gaze too piercing for comfort. “Oh, very well. The simple answer is that I wasn’t making enough money from him.”

“And the more complicated one?”

The agent hesitated. “Well, to tell you the truth, I rather liked the fellow at first. He was smart and engaging when I took him on. Then he became obsessed by the ludicrous idea of setting a crime series in Albania. I told him it wouldn’t sell, but he didn’t listen. I don’t think he’s the man he was. I heard that his ex-wife rode roughshod over him in the divorce. Since then he’s been full of self-pity and resentment.” He gave Oaten a crooked smile. “Neither of which qualities is exactly marketable.”

For some reason the chief inspector found herself wanting to stick up for Matt Wells. She restrained herself. “Very well,” she said, moving to the door. “We’ll be in touch to take your formal statement, Mr. Fels. Uniformed officers will patrol the area until further notice.”

“You mean my assailants might come back?” Fels said, his face suddenly even paler than it had been.

Oaten struggled not to smile. The vain old snob seemed to care only about his own skin. “Oh, probably not,” she said, deliberately refusing to give him any more substantial comfort. Maybe that would teach him some humility.

When she and Turner got to the Volvo, she extended her hand for the keys. “I’ll drive. You can bring me up to speed on what the rest of the team’s been up to.” The plan for the day had been a concerted effort to track down Leslie Dunn and Nicholas Cork, the two most suspicious missing men from the lists that had been compiled. The attack on Fels had distracted her from that.

“The last I heard,” Turner said, “Pavlou was on his way to the bank in Hackney. D.C.I. Hardy’s people are following up on Drys’s circle of friends and family, though there isn’t much of the latter. They’re mostly dead or in Greece.”

“They’re a dead end, as well,” the chief inspector said morosely, accelerating down Highgate Road. “He was killed because of his connection with Matt Wells-the bad reviews.”

Turner looked at her, his face a picture of confusion. “Excuse me, guv, but what’s going on with Wells? Since he’s refusing to come in, we have to treat him as a suspect, don’t we?”

Oaten bit her lip. “In theory, yes. I think I believe him when he says his family and other contacts are in danger. He did send his friend to protect Fels, after all. And he put me on to his Internet people. When we’ve read his e-mails, we should have a clearer idea of what’s going on.”

The inspector was peering at his notes. “What are you going to do about Hardy’s people who managed to lose him today?”

“Same as I did with Morry Simmons,” she said, overtaking a bus.

“We need them, guv,” Turner protested.

“So does Traffic,” she said, inclining her head toward a van that was parked illegally. Her phone rang. She tossed it across to her colleague. “Answer that, will you?”

“Turner.” He glanced at her. “She’s got her hands full. Tell me, Paul.” He listened, his lips forming into a smile as he scribbled notes. “Okay, nice one. We’ll see you back at the Yard.” He dropped the phone onto his lap.

“What’s Pavlou got?” Oaten asked impatiently.

“Leslie Dunn,” the inspector answered, the smile turning into a grin. “He worked at the Savings Trust Bank in Hackney for a year, then was fired by the manager-our murder victim Steven Newton-for persistent disobedience and for, quote, ‘an unsatisfactory attitude toward customers.’”

“So we’ve got a motive for that murder.”

“Yep.” Turner gave her a triumphant look. “That’s not all. One of the tellers heard a rumor that Pavlou has just checked out. The bastard won the lottery in September 2001. Nine and a half million quid.”